


Cream of the Riding Crop

by 0pposing



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Defensively Heterosexual John Watson, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Jealous Sherlock, Light BDSM, Light Masochism, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Sherlock Holmes, Painplay, Possessive Sherlock, Protective John, Riding Crops, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Experiments on John, Sherlock acts tough but he's really not, Virgin Sherlock, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-13 22:51:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1243516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0pposing/pseuds/0pposing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whole time Sherlock's lived with John, he always was aware that John believed he was asexual. But little does he know, Sherlock is a massive masochist, practicing in his mind what would happen to John if he could ever get a hold on him. John's defensiveness will prevent that for as long as he can hold out, but Sherlock will make him give in to his urges.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cream of the Riding Crop

**Author's Note:**

> This is my 4th fan fic, I've decided to do Painplay because those really are my favorites. I want to thank my friends Eliza and Emily for helping me with the name and summary and they're just fucking great. Leave kudos or you get no cookies. Also, this is only going to have 2 chapters. :)

"Be awfully careful, Dr. Watson. You may live with the man, but what travels around in his head, underneath that cool, suave, calm, collected mask he wears, there is something you can't even fathom." Mycroft Holmes leaned upon his cane, triggering a slow exhale from his mouth and the creak of the floorboards to scream quietly. His eyes darted across John's face, examining whatever emotion there could be; but getting none. The only thing that was possibly, maybe, in his face was excitement. "You know very little of him, John. I grew up with this man. I think we're both well acquainted enough to where I understand even the _lot_ of what goes on his head."   
  
John sipped his whiskey in the glass. The diamond shaped ridges smoothed along his fingertips and he flexed his hands. Sighing, he stood up, downing the liquor and shaking his head, "Listen, Mycroft. I understand your.. worriedness.. thing.." John kept talking but Mycroft eyed him, squinting. The alcohol was already obviously obstructing his speech, he slurred with almost every word that rolled off his tongue. That wasn't his first drink, it was his third. He'd need a cab home, of course. Grabbing his cellphone out of his pocket, Mycroft's fingers moved fast.   
  
" _Come get your drunk boyfriend. MH_ "   
  
" _He's not my boyfriend, and I don't feel like dealing with intoxication. SH_ "   
  
" _Just come get him. MH_ "   
  
On the other side of England, Sherlock's fingers moved even faster than Mycroft's, almost angrily. Although he appealed to Mycroft as non-believing in sentiment and oblivious to feelings, Sherlock did feel for John. He felt so incredibly strongly for John, that even as he began to move up, out of his chair and strode towards the door, he was shaking, half in tears. His pale eyes were watery and cold; ridden of all emotion but left of tiredness.   
  
For the past 3 nights, John had a girl over. A different girl every time, and from Sherlock's bedroom, he could hear them, whatever they were doing. Their moaning screams, their blissful voices and the ever so often grunt of John's rugged middle aged voice. He hated it. He longed to be the one that would make that wonderful, pleasing sound out that arose from John's mouth when he finally reached climax and came. But it could never happen. Sherlock's need was much more.. provocative and higher class. The painplay. The masochism that would side with coitus; intercourse.

  
The things Sherlock would do if he could get his greedy little hands on the doctor. He only imagined though; John was incredibly defensive over his heterosexuality, and would never, could never give in. 

There was force, but that was wrong. As much as Sherlock wanted him, he didn't want to scar him. Or hurt him in any way. He wanted consent from him, consent to take over his body and every part of it. Even the thought of this made Sherlock hard, as he stood in the rain trying to hail a cab. He succeeded eventually, and the stiff cold bit away his erection. 

John stood wearily, blinking rapidly, cellphone in hand as he swayed softly in Mycroft's office. The Holmes brother had disappeared and John was having trouble making it outside. His hand found a stairwell and he placed his footing carefully, going down the steps as his head spun in directions; directions that didn't even seem possible. His head twitched and he furrowed his brows, raising them ever so often. Reaching the outside, the rain begun to hit his face and he stuck his tongue out, giggling at himself. Spinning around in continual circles, he laughed more and was interrupted by a tug. John was pulled towards a car by a tall, pale, dark haired man who was wearing an extremely long coat, much emphasis on the long part.

Being pushed into the car made John laugh even more. A hand touched his arse and he shouted, scowling back and positioning himself in the cab seat. "Oi, don't touch me there."

Sherlock said nothing and closed the door behind them, pulling his slim phone out of his pocket. He only texted Mycroft, to tell him John was safe now and going home, and that Mycroft was a complete and utter bastard for leaving John by himself.

" _Who knows what could've happened to him, you git?! SH_ "

_"I knew he was safe, you worry too much. You care about him Sherlock, but with your greedy needs I'm not sure if he's best for you. MH"_

Sherlock scowled and shoved his phone back angrily into his pockets. John next to him was already sleeping, snoring soundly and his head half leaning on Sherlock's shoulder. He didn't dare shrug John off, for it was peaceful and the warmth emitting from John's cheek brought excitement to Sherlock. Keeping a smile to himself, he looked to his right and watched the buildings and pedestrians on the sidewalk stroll by, minding their own business and rushing to meet whoever they were.

Now turning to his left, he looked at John sleeping. His now greying blonde hair shined and he wanted so badly to run his fingers through it. The wrinkles and stress lines in his face dispersed as he slumbered and his jaw was slacked, making him look a lot younger. Sherlock smiled softly and laid his cheek against John's furry head.

Eventually, the cab reached 221B Baker Street, and Sherlock gently nudged John, but did not wait for him and rushed inside of the flat. John was slow behind, blinking rapidly. Sherlock had paid the cab driver already, no worry about that. John struggled to climb out of the cab and stumble towards the door, almost tripping on the very first step. Catching his grip on the railing, his eyes wandered up to a clothed hand. Sherlock was standing at the top of the stairs, his long arm outstretched and the fingers under the gloves were flexing. John turned bright red, licked his bottom lip and extended his arm towards Sherlock. Once their fingers were intertwined, Sherlock carefully pulled him up the stairs while John placed his footing carefully. Once at the top, Sherlock pulled John into his arms and John shuddered. He could feel Sherlock's hot breath down his neck, triggering the hair to stand up on him wherever it could be stimulated.

"I think you should get to bed." Sherlock whispered gently, next to John's reddened ear. John opened his lips partly and inhaled sharply.

"U-Oh okay." He swallowed thickly, and turned to go up the next stairs to his bedroom, but he wasn't quick enough for two slim lips were planted on his cheekbone, below his eye. He gasped and pushed away from Sherlock. Sherlock pulled away also, and walked into the flat, shutting the door behind him.

John stood there, staring intently at the closed flat door. His knees weak, his forehead had begun to perspire and his eyelids dropped half shut. Maybe he just imagined it. Maybe it didn't really happen and his drunk state of mind was fucking with him. Shaking his head slowly, he turned and trudged up the stairs towards his bedroom. He noticed his door was half open. He was positive he closed it before Mycroft called on him for a short visit and a drink. Furrowing his brows, he touched his fingertips to the wood and pushed forward.

Nothing.

The bedroom was exactly the same as it was before he left. Closing the door behind him, he fell against it, sliding down until his knees were propped up and his arse was on the floor. He looked around and sighed, frowning slightly.

But what if that little kiss did it happen? What was it supposed to mean? Just as he began to close his eyes, violin rang out from downstairs.

Usually this was the melody that Sherlock liked to play when John would have one of his nightmares, but for some reason, he was playing it now. Standing up, he turned around cracked the door open, pressing his ear against the small opening. The sound was like bliss to his ears. It was calming but at the same time full of depth and depression. John's smile faded and he closed the door, going over to his bed and laying down. He didn't bother taking off his clothes, there was no point. He probably wouldn't sleep anyways.

* * *

 

Sherlock felt that there was nothing more saddening than to wake up and find his flat empty. John had left already; possibly early in the morning to avoid him. This made him thoroughly upset. He spent a good chunk of the morning preparing tea for them, and playing his violin. Although John wasn't even there, Sherlock left the tea sitting on the table next to John's chair. His eyes; those pale emotionless eyes, were fixated on the chair the whole day, never releasing his gaze until John came home later that night.

The door swung open slowly and John's head appeared around the corner.

"Oh, you're up. I brought home some food if you're hungry.."

Sherlock said nothing and stared at John. He licked his lips before speaking finally. "What you thought I meant yesterday.. What you thought IT meant, it didn't. I tripped and kissed you, purely accidental." Sherlock stood up and approached John, looking down at the significantly shorter man. "You can interpret it almost any way you like, but the truth is, is that is meant nothing," He snapped, "And no, I don't want your food. Not hungry."

John stood there, staring at Sherlock, his mouth agape. He wanted to avoid this conversation, but there obviously was no avoiding this, so he put the food down on the table next to his chair and looked at Sherlock, who had sat down back in his seat.

"Sherlock.. we do need to talk about this, you and I both know.. it wasn't just a bloody _fall_." John stared at Sherlock, who was paying no attention to him in any way.

"Do you think Mrs. Hudson will bring us tea?"

"Sherlock! You're not listening to me!" John shook his head. Nothing was working, of course. Sherlock was being an arse, as usual. Rolling his eyes, he sat down in his chair across from Sherlock and stared at him. "Forgetting, that subject, I need to ask you a question."

"You may."

"Do you like men?"

Sherlock's eyes shot up and looked at John. There was a hint of emotion in his face, but John couldn't identify what it was. Almost excitement, he concluded. Leaning forward and placing his hand on Sherlock's knee, he smiled softly. "It's okay, if you are that is. Y'know.."

"Know what?" Sherlock held up his head high and glared at John. "I do like men. I _prefer_ men, at least." 

John licked his bottom lip and looked at Sherlock's eyes. "So.. have you ever even been with a man?"

Sherlock shuddered and stood up, grinning. "John, where are these questions coming from? If anything, it makes you look like the one who's interested in men." He popped up his coat collar and stood behind John, leaning down and placing his lips below John's ear. "Which frankly, doesn't bother me _at all_." The last words rolled off of Sherlock's tongue and made John's hair stand up on ends. A wave of heat surged through his groin and he winced inaudibly.

"I-I'm straight! I've always been with women!" He stood up and backed away from Sherlock.

"I know you what you went to see Mycroft about; he warned you. About my needs and such." He smirked and grabbed something from behind him.

"Yeah, he said, uh, you take pleasure in pain. I don't know if I believe him or no-"

Sherlock's hands were placed in front of him now, in his right hand was his riding crop. "You should believe him, as you know, Holmes men don't lie." The whip came down on John's arm and he flew backward, shouting angrily and falling onto the couch.

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell was that for!?"

**Whack.**

The whip was there again, across the side of John's face and Sherlock kneeled down next to him, grabbing his face with his hands. "You really are one naughty boy, John Watson."

John stared at him, anger in his eyes. Swinging at him with his fists, he pushed Sherlock onto the floor and started hitting into his chest with every ounce of strength.

Sherlock gasped and coughed as he took his beating, smiling with every punch that was made to his body. Pushing back at John, he rolled over so he was on top and pinned John's hands above his head. "You want to know something, hmm?" Sherlock smirked and put his face next to John's, the blood from his lip dripping onto John's cheek. "You're hard. You enjoy this, but you act like you don't." His lips touched John's cheek, licking up the blood and with his slender tongue. Withdrawing from John, he stood up, brushing his coat and walking towards his bedroom. "You know where I am."

The door closed behind him and John laid there, tears in his eyes and blood on the side of his face where the whip hit him. Wiping it off of his face, he stood up and wobbled slightly. He was dizzy, not from pain, but from confusion.

What does he do now?

Sherlock was right, he had thoroughly enjoyed that. The way Sherlock straddled his waist and their cocks were basically touching, God it was magnificent. His bulge throbbed and his pants were becoming uncomfortably tight. Looking towards the door, John sighed. 

He left his riding crop.

Picking it up, he examined it in his hand. He wondered if anyone else had become subject to this tool. If Sherlock had ever had anyone in his bed behind his back. Taking small steps, he approached Sherlock's door and pushed it open with his fingertips slowly.

* * *

 


End file.
